


skirt his edges and clean up after

by pangodillO



Series: skirt his edges 'verse [1]
Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angst, Body Dysphoria, Domesticity, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Issues, Gender Roles, Happy Ending, I will fight you for nonbinary Cecil, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Omegaverse, Other, all Carloses are trans Carloses, if 'domestic fluff' is a genre can 'domestic angst' be a genre too, unconventional omegaverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 19:14:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,035
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3261254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pangodillO/pseuds/pangodillO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's nothing Cecil can say.  They know; they've tried it all.  No amount of "This doesn't make you female; plenty of men have heats" or "There's nothing to be ashamed of" will reassure him.  They can only hold on, stroking their hand up and down Carlos' back (slick with sweat, and hot under Cecil's hand, and made of <i>skin</i>)—until he shudders and pushes them gently away.</p><p>"It's lonely," he says, soft.  "For both of us, I know.  Thank you for taking care of me."</p>
            </blockquote>





	skirt his edges and clean up after

**Author's Note:**

> [OULFIS](http://ao3.org/users/oulfis). Oulfis is the best beta. This is so much shinier now that he's had his hands all over it and there is no "thank you" in the world big enough to encompass how I feel about the time he spent holding my hand.
> 
> This was not an easy story to write, for both personal and technical reasons, and it's not an easy story to share. It may not make a lot of sense. I can't bring myself to apologize for that, though. Start by letting go of your ideas about what omegaverse is, maybe; this is different, and it will be easier to start from a blank slate.
> 
> I hope you enjoy.
> 
> (P.S. There's no sex in this fic. Thought I should tell you up-front: this is an omegaverse fic with no sex.)

Carlos' car is in the driveway when Cecil comes home from their weekly meeting of the Omega Bowling League on Thursday night.

Cecil didn't come up with the name, of course. 'Omega' is not a slur they feel comfortable trying to reclaim; they're transfeminine but they aren't a woman, after all. Old Woman Josie had named it, and one simply doesn't argue with Old Woman Josie! Cecil is just careful never to name the league on-air, and as little as possible otherwise.

Their habit of talking around the name has led to a few awkward moments. Like that time Carlos asked if he could join, saying he'd like to spend more time with Cecil's friends and (to Cecil's delight) Cecil themself. They had to explain that it's, um, sort of only for people who aren't men?

Cecil has known some trans men who would have argued. Carlos just nodded thoughtfully, and then said, "All right. Maybe we can find something else to do together socially." Of course, having moved in together, finding things to do together socially is less of a hardship. 

Cecil parks across the street and scritches their car on the side of its steering wheel as they get out; it purrs at them and folds its wheels under itself, all its doors locking. They pat Carlos' car gently on one headlight as they pass it on their way up to the door.

Their breath catches as soon as the front door opens, and disappointment crashes through them all at once. They were looking forward to a nice cuddle, maybe some television, and (if they both felt like it) some slow, lazy sex before bed.

But the air is full of heat-smell, and none of those things are going to happen.

The smell is stronger than it should be, and grows even stronger as Cecil steps inside and shuts the door behind themself. Carlos must have felt the heat coming on and come home early to nap—he always gets sleepy and irritable beforehand, and never realizes what it means—because he's here, sprawled across the sofa, asleep. A damp patch spreads between his legs and over the sofa cushion: the source of the smell.

He ought to be—he would prefer to be shut away in the bedroom already. Not because he needs to be! The "alpha-male instinct" (as though Carlos is any less a man for this!) is absolutely controllable for any designated-male-at-birth individual who makes an actual effort, and Carlos doesn't need to hide for his own safety. Only because he so hates to be seen.

Cecil's cock stirs, but they feel no interest or desire, and they ignore it. They leave Carlos sleeping and slip into the kitchen to make some food—something high-energy and easy to eat, and quick.

They put together a tray—a tall glass of water, a small glass of milk, a banana, and sandwiches made from bread Carlos smuggled in from his sister's—and carry it out to him, sitting next to him with the tray on their lap and putting a hand on his shoulder.

Carlos shifts and groans under their touch, and finally flutters awake. "Cecil...?"

"I brought food," Cecil says, rushed, putting the tray between themself and Carlos. "You should eat. And drink something. There's milk and water, I didn't know which you'd want, I thought you could—"

"Cecil," Carlos groans. "Please stop talking."

Cecil's mouth snaps shut mid-word. They're _trying_ , and none of this is their fault—but of course, none of it is Carlos' fault either, not even the way their dick hurts, squeezed down one pant leg. All they can do about that is aggressively ignore it until it goes away. But they have to take care of Carlos, first; they have to get Carlos fed and into the bedroom.

Carlos' mouth pinches, and he sighs. "I'm sorry," he says, and raises a hand as though to touch—but then doesn't. "Thank you for taking care of me. I'm sorry I get so..."

"I don't mind," Cecil says, which isn't quite right. "I mean, you shouldn't have to apologize. You don't have to apologize."

Carlos nods: a single tense, sharp movement. He looks at the food and grimaces, which Cecil doesn't take personally, and then sets about methodically working his way through it. 

He pushes the tray back toward them still half-full (they made too much, they always do) and stands; Cecil catches at his sleeve, but drops their hand to their lap again almost as soon as they've touched.

"Please drink the water too," they murmur.

Carlos looks at them, not quite a glare but sharp, and drains half the glass, holding it with both shaking hands. "I have to go," he says, abrupt; the glass clatters onto the tray, and Cecil only just catches it before it spills.

Cecil nods, because it's true, because there's nothing else to say. They feel useless, watching Carlos go up the steps, not looking back at them. They want to take this away from him, and can't; can only skirt Carlos' edges now, offering what help they can and cleaning up after.

 

They make dinner for themself while the laundry runs: rice noodles with tomato sauce out of a jar. They don't have the energy for much more than that. They're tempted to take the last of Carlos' bread, make some much-missed garlic toast, but they don't.

The sounds from the bedroom are a distraction; Cecil puts on headphones. They don't often resent their body for being what it is, but they do when Carlos goes into heat. It just seems so unfair: something Cecil wants to experience, has always wanted to experience, and can't; inflicted on Carlos instead, who hates it.

The way their body answers Carlos' is _awful_ and they try not to think about it.

Cecil sorts through their email, reading late news and making notes on how to present it on the show tomorrow. There's also a sponsor item to record, not for tomorrow but for next week's broadcast, and they begin to memorize it.

They work until the room's gone dark; when they set the headphones down, the house is quiet again. They gather up a bottle of water, dinner leftovers, and a couple granola bars and make their way upstairs. Carlos doesn't need them to feed him, but he hates to leave the bedroom when he's feeling like this, and Cecil... Cecil just wants to make everything better, or as close to better as they can manage.

"Carlos?" they call, rapping on the bedroom door. "May I come in?"

"Uh." There's a faint squeak of bedsprings, a loud sniff. A long, silent moment. "Yeah, it's okay now. Come in."

Cecil eases inside to find Carlos sitting up against the headboard, holding a sheet up over his chest. The room _reeks_ of his heat, but that's not what catches Cecil's attention.

It's Carlos' eyes, red-rimmed and puffy. The sight strikes to Cecil's core, and they falter, nearly dropping their little offering. "Carlos...?" they ask, tentative, never sure how much comfort Carlos wants or can stand at these times.

"Please, yes," Carlos whispers, and Cecil goes to him, sets the things on the side table and gathers Carlos up in their arms when he leans into them.

There's nothing they can say. They know; they've tried it all. No amount of "This doesn't make you female; plenty of men have heats" or "There's nothing to be ashamed of" will reassure him. They can only hold on, stroking their hand up and down Carlos' back (slick with sweat, and hot under Cecil's hand, and made of _skin_ )—until he shudders and pushes them gently away.

"It's lonely," he says, soft. "For both of us, I know. Thank you for taking care of me."

"I love you," Cecil says, which is the best they can come up with. They want to kiss him, but that's not allowed (too much temptation, Carlos says), so they just say, "I love you," again, and slip out the door, and close it behind them, and sigh.

It _is_ lonely.

 

Cecil goes to sleep in the guest bed. It's not as though they haven't done this before, it's just... it isn't routine, still, and they oversleep because they forgot to set their alarm. They have to scramble to get ready, and almost forget to bring something to Carlos, and they would have been on time if they hadn't been waiting for the toaster.

"Cecil," Carlos groans as they enter the bedroom. "Please, I need you..."

The smell is even stronger now, and fresh, and Cecil breathes as little as possible. "I'm sorry," they say, averting their eyes from the bed. They can't avoid seeing the _display_ Carlos is putting on, covered in nothing more than a sheet, the motions beneath it painfully obvious. (He doesn't want to avert his eyes; he wants to climb over, rip the toy from Carlos and replace it with his own cock, fill and claim and mark and— _NO_.) "I'm sorry, I can't, I—I can't, Carlos. I love you. I'm sorry."

They don't want to get too close to the bed, not with Carlos in such a state—not with themself in such a state. They don't want to risk a moment where _having_ seems more important than how they'll both feel about it tomorrow. They leave the plate and the fresh water bottle within arms' reach and almost _run_ from the room, from the house, from the things they don't want to want to do.

 

The weekend is both a blessing and a curse. It's a blessing on Saturday morning, when Carlos cannot stop crying and clings desperately to Cecil for two hours, and Cecil doesn't have to worry about any punctuality seminars in the dark box. It's a curse when Carlos finally pushes them away, and they wander downstairs and find they have nothing to do, nowhere to go.

They wait. They put on headphones and listen to music when Carlos gets too loud. They write out a grocery list, intending to go down to the Ralph's and pick up some of Carlos' favorites; they leave the list on the counter and stand, tapping one foot, at the bottom of the stairs in case Carlos needs them.

 

On Sunday, Cecil makes the grocery run they'd been intending. When they get back, the noises from the bedroom are muffled but audible; they stand in the kitchen and work on food prep with their headphones off.

There's way too much food when Carlos is finally quiet: apples, pears, nectarines all sliced into bite-size pieces. Individual crackers with slices of cheese and meat neatly folded and stacked on top. A handful of blueberries; a pile of strawberries with their caps already cut off.

They put it all on a tray anyway, and two bottles of water (just in case) and an extra bottle of lube because they think the old bottle may have been low.

There's no answer, when Cecil knocks. They try again. Nothing. "Carlos?"

This time, a low groan, not at all like the sounds Carlos makes in pleasure. Cecil nearly drops the tray—manages to steady it instead, fumbles the door open and stumbles inside. "Carlos?"

Carlos is—Oh.

 _Oh_.

Cecil slowly sets the tray down on the floor at his feet. It's further from the bed than usual, but he can't—With Carlos looking like—and the _smell_ —

"I'm sorry," he gasps, and backs away, forcibly keeping his eyes on the tray. "I'm so, so sorry." He cannot stand to be in the room a moment longer; he tears away, slams the door shut behind him, thunks his head against the wood.

Breathes.

They hate this for Carlos' sake, and they hate it for their own, too. They hate the feeling of being dragged into manliness—not masculinity; masculinity is something they've struggled with, something they've had to carefully construct in such a way that it overruns neither their femininity nor the harder-to-pin-down sense of their truest presentation. Masculinity is something they can stand to inhabit, now. This—isn't. This is _manly_ , with all the toxic connotations and none of the good. It's not Carlos' fault, of course it isn't, but sometimes they can't help but blame him. They would _never_ let on; Carlos deals with enough as it is.

They reach down, adjust their dick, go downstairs. Stand by an open window and breathe, looking out on the parts of their little town they can see from here.

It's so much worse for Carlos. If Cecil feels dragged into maleness, imagine how Carlos must feel, dragged into one of the most woman-associated phenomena there is. They know, they both know that there doesn't have to be anything feminine or female about heats, but it's hard to unlearn all the bullshit that society treats as "normal".

Cecil does little enough for Carlos as it is. They shouldn't be avoiding him for their own sake, they should be available for anything Carlos might need, they should be _there_ for him.

They don't go in again. Carlos won't need them again; there was plenty of food, plenty of water. He'll be fine. He's a scientist! A scientist is always fine. Right?

They put on their headphones and try to work.

 

Their own hunger drives them into the kitchen. At first they don't hear it: such an ordinary, everyday sound, a soothing background hum. Everything's so quiet without the music.

The shower is running.

What a relief! Cecil puts a frozen dinner-for-two in the microwave and goes into the bedroom to collect the sheets, and the clothes Carlos had been wearing when the heat started.

They open the window and take the soiled sheets downstairs, wrapping the fabric carefully so that only the dry parts touch them. They start them on a sanitary load, drop Carlos' favorite, softest lab coat into the dryer to warm up (he calls it a _bathrobe_ , but honestly, who wears a robe in the bath? Not even Carlos wears it into the bath), then begins to clean up the wreckage of the room.

Empty water bottles into the recycling, dropped food into the trash. (Some of the fruit still in the bowl makes it into Cecil's mouth.) Dishes and trays stacked by the door to come downstairs, and the toys taken into the hall bathroom and scrubbed clean, then hidden away again in their box in the closet.

Cecil returns to the bathroom, strips out of their clothes, and washes their skin anywhere they even think they may have touched some of Carlos'—wetness. They masturbate into a hand towel, once there's no trace left of the smell; they keep their mind carefully blank and when they orgasm, they do not clamp a hand around their knot. It's unsatisfying, even unpleasant, but it kills any lingering physical arousal in a way that does not associate Carlos' heats or his heat-scent with pleasure. Cecil takes their clothes downstairs, dumps them in with the sheets, and by the time they get back upstairs the movement has deflated the last of their erection, enough so that they can comfortably slip into their favorite lacy briefs. 

They stand by the dryer and listen for the sound of the shower shutting off. When it does, with a _thunk_ that echoes through the pipes, they take out the warmed lab coat and carry it upstairs.

Carlos emerges from the bathroom a few minutes after Cecil arrives at the door, naked and with hair still damp. He lets Cecil bundle him into the lab coat and then just leans into them, a soft tired weight.

Cecil holds him close, presses kisses into his hair and soothes their hands over his back and shoulders. They can breathe deep of Carlos now; he smells only like himself and water and Cecil's favorite soap.

"I need to eat," Carlos eventually says, apologetically.

"Of course," Cecil says, and begins to draw away—and catches Carlos when he stumbles against them. "Are you all right?"

"Yes," Carlos says, breathy, startled. "Yes, I'm fine, Cecil. I wasn't expecting—and my legs are, um, a little shaky."

Cecil resists the urge to offer to carry Carlos downstairs; it will make Carlos feel weak, patronized. Instead they draw away more slowly, letting Carlos take his own weight.

Carlos makes it down the steps, shakily and grimacing but on his own. He winces as he sits down at the kitchen table, but the expression fades once he's settled.

Cecil brings him dinner, but picks at their own food. They remind themself that it's over, and that Carlos is fine—tired, certainly, and sore, of _course_ , but with no lasting damage either physical or emotional.

"Are you all right?" Carlos asks. "You've barely eaten."

"Just lingering worry," Cecil admits.

"I'm okay," Carlos tells them, reaching for their hand and clutching tight. "I promise. You took good care of me. You were there when I needed you, and you didn't, you know... _look_ at me too much."

Cecil ducks their head. "I saw—"

"I know," Carlos interrupts, as though he thinks Cecil would ever actually say that _out loud_. "I know, but you didn't mean to, and you _left_."

"Of _course_ I left." There was no other even remotely acceptable option.

"Yes," Carlos says, and smiles. "Of course you did." He leans in and takes a kiss from Cecil's mouth. It turns into another, and another, until Carlos' hands are fisted in Cecil's T-shirt and Cecil's hands are buried in Carlos' perfect, beautiful hair.

There's no arousal in this kiss, no desire, no heat. Only contact, only the affection they haven't been allowed the last four days. Carlos slides into Cecil's lap, taking the height advantage: at once masculine and a deliberate satire of manliness. It feels like fitting back together, and back into themself; Cecil feels their gender settle, once again firmly off the binary scale.

They break off, pulling back to just look at Carlos, tracing his touch of grey and his fine wrinkles and the smooth, unshadowed line of his jaw with their eyes. "I missed you."

"I missed me, too," Carlos says. "And I missed you."


End file.
